No
by writerprobie
Summary: This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real. He wouldn't allow it. This was not allowed to happen. Not to her. Dear God not to her.


No…no, no, no, no, no, NO! This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be real. He wouldn't allow it. This was not allowed to happen. Not to her. Dear God not to her. Under no circumstances was she ever allowed to get hurt. Except now she was lying on the ground and there was a hole through her shirt and blood was coming out and he couldn't get to her fast enough to save her. This couldn't be happening. Except it was.

It was routine. They had gone to interview a potential suspect. Reynolds had gone with them because Reynolds always went with them when Foster was going. It was one of Cal's private rules; Gillian had noticed but had had the grace not to say anything about it, allowing Cal to have this for his peace of mind. He had been in a bar, the suspect, and the minute Reynolds had flashed his badge the man had pulled out a gun and fired. Except it didn't hit Reynolds, it hit Gillian. It was remarkable really, how much time seemed to slow down for Cal as he followed the trajectory of the bullets path from the muzzle of the gun and realized it was pointed at Gillian. That's when the terror had hit, and he started to move. But he was so slow, so bloody slow. His muscles felt like molasses, no match for the hot lead currently rocketing towards the body of the woman he loved. He watched the impact of the bullet, jerking her body back into the wooden pole she stood in front of, her head connecting with a crack on the wood. She slumped to the ground, her face belaying her shock at what had just happened, morphing into pain as the surprise wore off. Cal made for her while Reynolds fired off three rounds into the bastards chest.

Cal cradled her in his arms, yelling at someone, anyone, to phone fucking 911 until he saw the bartender get out his cell phone and dial and Gillian put her hand on his face and said "shhhhh Cal. It'll be alright. I'll be fine." She wasn't supposed to be telling him that. He was supposed to be telling her that. He looked at her, his face mirroring the agony of hers. How the hell was anything ever going to be alright again? She had been shot. She's not the one that's supposed to get hurt. That's something he can't deal with. He's not strong enough to lose her. But now she's smiling at him, masking her pain and it damn near breaks him because he doesn't understand how she can be so bloody beautiful in the midst of all of this madness.

And then the paramedics are there and their taking her out of his arms to place her on the gurney. He follows them out to the ambulance and climbs in. One of them asks him who he is and he tells her he's her husband and she nods, saying he can stay. He holds Gillian's hand on the ride to the hospital, but she isn't holding his because she's unconscious now, and he's grateful that she's not in pain anymore but terrified that she'll never open her eyes again. It wasn't fair. He should be able to protect her. Why couldn't he protect her?

They take her away once they reach the hospital. Rushing her into emergency surgery and leaving him in the waiting room. Standing in front of the doors that she had been pushed through, stricken with grief and about to break down at any minute but unable to, because Gillian's not there, and he's never been able to break down without Gillian. So he stands there, waiting, staring, for how long he doesn't know. But it's far too long before the doctor comes out and tells him that she's stable, the bullet did no permanent damage and he can go in and see her now.

She's asleep when he walks in, and she looks so fragile that he just wants to wrap her in his arms and never let go. Protect her for all eternity, so that she'll never get hurt again. He sits down in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed. And instead of sprawling like he usually does, claiming as much space as possible in order to match his ridiculous ego, he curls in on himself, bending over at the waist to lay his head on the bed, just touching her waist and taking her hand in his, curling it to his chest.

That's when he breaks down, huge sobs that wrack his entire body as he trembles. He failed. That thought keeps repeating in his head, over and over and over. She was his responsibility. And now she is lying in a hospital bed with a hole through her abdomen and it was all his fault. Why didn't he see it? He should have seen it. Should have been able to react sooner, moved in front of her, tackled the guy, anything but this. It was torture, agony in its purest form, twisting at his heart and ripping his gut out over and over and over again as her relived his greatest failure.

He fell asleep like that, clutching her hand, dried tears on his face, and dreamed his nightmare. He awoke with a jolt, and initially felt relief. It was all a dream. It had never happened, it was all just a nightmare. And then he registered her hand in his, and the white sheets and the hospital bed and anguish grabs him again and thrusts him headlong into his river of guilt. He turns his head to see her face and feels his world come level again when he looks into her open eyes. She's pale and tired and when she speaks her voice comes out in a croak before she clears her throat and tries again but she's awake, and suddenly the world is a little brighter and his inner demons get a little quieter.

"Hi," he says, and she smiles, that wonderful, Gillian smile that his world revolves around and he feels the corners of his mouth stretch into a returning grin. She raises her hand to the tears that are tunneling their way down his cheeks and wipes them away. And she's ok. Life can restart.

She gingerly scoots over on the bed and pats the space next to her in an invitation to join her. He climbs in carefully, turning to her and wrapping his arms around her in an embrace while being sure not to hurt her. His nose is in her hair and he breathes her in, memorizing the smell; vanilla, and he loves it, loves her. She smiles sleepily, murmurs good night, and nestles her head in the crook of his arm, falling asleep almost immediately. He stays awake for a while longer, staring at her in his arms and thanking every deity that he can think of that she is alive.


End file.
